The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  “Florence?” Catherine was saying, peering over her guests at James Beacon’s sister. “But, my dear, you have a lovely voice! How about ‘Sweet Robyn, Come to Me?’ Of course, you know it. It goes like this…” She began to warble the chorus.

  This time Letty could not contain her yawn. Catherine stopped singing. Caught, Letty’s guilty gaze rose to her hostess’s pink face. Well, she had covered her mouth with her hand…

  “Ah. Lady Agatha! Were you motioning me?” Catherine asked sweetly.

  Letty cleared her throat “No. I—”

  “I should have realized you were a songstress,” Catherine said. “A woman of your obvious,” she emphasized the word ever so slightly, her gaze flickering for just a split second on Letty’s bodice, “accomplishments.” Letty’s face muscles tightened.

  “Oh, do favor us with a song!” Catherine implored. The rest of the guests turned in their seats and began applauding lightly, their kind faces wreathed in expectation. Only Elliot looked doubtful. Why? Didn’t he think another woman could match his former girlfriend stride for stride?

  Not only could she match her, she could outpace her. Bunnies, indeed.

  “Well,” she said, rising to her feet, “if you insist.”

  “I do. We do. Don’t we, Elliot?” She put a proprietary hand on his sleeve.

  “Only if Lady Agatha feels comfortable doing so,” Elliot answered tactfully.

  “If you kind people promise to forgive me if I make a little blunder here and there?” Letty demurred modestly, and at the crowd’s quick assurances, she dimpled and swept up the aisle to the front of the room.

  “May I accompany you?” Catherine, ever the gracious hostess, offered.

  “No, thanks.” Letty slipped by her and scooted to the middle of the piano bench. She wasn’t a great musician. Her instrument was her voice, but she knew the chords and had a keen sense of rhythm.

  Uncertainly, Catherine moved aside. Elliot took a seat near the edge of the room, his gaze puzzled.

  Letty ran her fingers lightly over the keys, producing a perky tune. Then, smiling fully at the audience, she began singing.

  On a tree by a river a little tom-tit,

  Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

  And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit

  Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?

  “Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried.

  “Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”

  With a shake of his poor little head, he replied,

  “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

  The crowd loved it. But then, any Brit in the land loved Gilbert and Sullivan.

  Amazing.

  Elliot leaned back in his chair. Seated near the edge of the audience, he could study her without calling attention to himself. She was magnificent. Her voice was a clear mezzo, bold and rich. But it was the manner in which she sang that most impressed one.

  When she reached the lyric about titwillow’s “weakness of intellect,” her expression transformed into bewildered ingenuousness. The audience laughed, joining in the fun.

  That was her gift, Elliot thought. She had the knack of making things fun, of drawing people into her charmed circle and making them feel clever and witty.

  As he watched, she tossed her head and swung her arm out, inviting the listeners to join the chorus and, begads, they did. He even saw one of the Bunting’s maids busily collecting empty cups at the back of the room, mouthing “titwillow” as she worked. Letty, made bold with their approval, segued seamlessly into an old music hall standard, “Champagne Charlie.”

  Her expressive, mobile face became bluff and good-natured, her voice slurred and sly, perfectly capturing the nature and Cockney accent of the song’s title character. The audience began clapping, keeping time to the music.

  Clapping! His neighbors! As though they were in an alehouse and not Lord Paul Bunting’s drawing room. Not that Paul seemed to mind. He was clapping right along with the rest. Florence Beacon was tapping her foot and Rose Jepson was swaying from side to side. Only Catherine remained motionless, a smile fixed on her face.

  Letty reached the chorus and sang, “For my name is Champagne Charlie!” and held her hand to her ear, as though listening. The guests didn’t hesitate, but sang the refrain back to her with gusto, “Champagne Charlie is my name!”

  She threw back her head and laughed with pure, unadulterated gaiety. She was still laughing when she looked into the crowd. Abruptly, she stopped. Her eyes grew wide. Elliot turned in his seat. There was nothing in the direction in which she’d stared as though seeing a ghost.

  She touched her temples and gave an unconvincing smile. “I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten the next lines.”

  A universal sound of disappointment arose from the exuberant crowd.

  “No, no. Really, you are too kind, but I must decline.” She stood up, bobbed a quick curtsy, and scooted toward the back of the drawing room.

  Who was she? Oh, yes, he knew her name: Agatha Letitia Whyte. Letty to her intimates. But even though each day he learned more about Letty, he had the oddest feeling he knew less about Lady Agatha.

  Letty scooped Fagin up in her arms. That had been close. She’d been having a right jolly good time of it when she’d suddenly seen the little beggar standing dead in the middle of the aisle that separated the audience’s chairs.

  Only he was standing on his back legs, his front legs tucked close to his body in preparation for his hop down the aisle to her side. Worse, he would be hopping with Catherine Bunting’s reticule clamped in his mouth. She should have realized he’d pull something like this.

  An actor’s need for attention was nearly insatiable, and Fagin was a true son of the bards. He’d only needed to hear applause to launch into his routine. A routine she’d taught him. As she’d taught him to nip lady’s purses in the audience. She’d never imagined he’d combine the two skills. Thank God no one else had seen him.

  She dropped the purse and kicked it under a row of chairs. The servants would find it later when they cleaned up. She turned, Fagin wiggling in her arms. A little crowd was gathering behind her.

  “What a lovely voice you have, Lady Agatha!”

  “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in months.”

  “You have such talent, Lady Agatha, don’t you think so, Sir Elliot?”

  “Extraordinary.”

  She turned her head. He stood beside her.

  “Lady Agatha,” he greeted her.

  “Sir Elliot.” Could that breathless whisper be hers?

  “May I compliment you on your performance? It was enchanting.”

  Oh, Lord. He really must stop looking at her that way. It made her feel light-headed and muzzy and…

  He stepped back and another gentleman took his place. When next she looked, he was gone. It was fifteen minutes before she could break free of her well-wishers. She moved through the crush, smiling her thanks as appreciative comments followed her, looking for him.

  She finally found him in a crowded anteroom. He was seated by the window, one elbow on the arm of his chair, his knuckles pressed to his lips as he listened gravely to a thin whippet of a man. As Letty watched, another gentleman approached Elliot from behind and touched his shoulder.

  Elliot lifted his hand, forestalling any interruption, and the man left. There would soon be another to take his place. Wherever Elliot was, he drew people like steel tailings to a magnet.

  As if he felt her studying him, Elliot lifted his eyes and met her gaze. For a second it was as if they were the only two people in the room. She couldn’t hear anything except the thudding of her heart. His mouth softened, curved into the promise of a smile.

  “Lady Agatha?” Someone touched her elbow. She blinked, coming up from the dense, all-pervading awareness of him, of what he did to her with just the hint of a smile.

  “Yes?” She turned to face the gentleman. It was Mr. Jepson and he was brilliantly red in the face.


  “Ah, er, you weren’t thinking of coming in here, were you, Lady Agatha?” he asked unhappily.

  “Of course not,” Letty said with a regal sniff. “Why wasn’t I?”

  “Because, ah, this is the, ah, smoking room.”

  Of course it was. Any idiot could see that. Smoke hung in a thin blue blanket in the air. Of the twenty or so men, half held cigars while the other half held brandy glasses. The women—There were no women. Oh.

  “Do excuse me. I was looking for the ladies’ room.” Pray God there was such a thing.

  “Of course!” Mr. Jepson said. “Down the hall and the first door to the left.”

  She glanced at Elliot before she left, but he was now thoroughly engaged in conversation with the thin, gray man. She left and retraced her steps toward the drawing room before thinking better of it. A chitchat with some of the local tabbies might prove entertaining. With that thought, she followed Mr. Jepson’s direction, finding the door to the ladies’ room slightly ajar. She approached, half expecting a cloud of perfumed talc to come wafting through the opening. Instead, she heard Catherine Bunting’s voice.

  “Of course, one would not say ‘vulgar.’”

  Letty stopped.

  “No, but one could say ‘common,’” came the response. It was Squire Himplerump’s wife, Dottie. The woman had never spoken to Letty beyond muttering, “How’d y’ do?”

  “You know what people are saying?” Dottie asked in dramatic tones.

  “You know I don’t listen to gossip, dear,” Catherine replied, without the slightest reproach.

  “Of course not, but this is really more in the order of speculation, not gossip.”

  “Oh. Well, then. What do people speculate?”

  “They say Sir Elliot is, and I put this in the vulgar parlance in which it belongs, bowled over by her.”

  Letty smiled. They do?

  Catherine laughed. Letty’s smile faded.

  “Elliot? ‘Bowled over’? Ridiculous!”

  “He certainly acts besotted,” Dottie replied.

  Hear, hear!

  “My dear, need I remind you that I was engaged to the man? Not to be unkind, but Elliot isn’t the sort who’s ruled by his emotions. Supposing he has them.”

  If that was Catherine trying “not to be unkind,” Letty would hate to run into her when she was feeling nasty. She began to turn away, certain that if she stayed much longer she’d do something impulsive.

  “You really don’t see what’s going on, do you?” Catherine asked Dottie.

  “Well,” Dottie said, “I think he thinks she’s got a nice shape? My son certainly does. He says she—”

  “No,” Catherine clipped out. “That’s not what Elliot is thinking.” She sighed. “It seems so clear to me. I would have thought that a woman of perception such as yourself, Dottie, would see it, too. Well, if you don’t, you don’t, and I shan’t say a thing. But I think Elliot is making a grave mistake.”

  “Oh, tell!”

  “No. It’s too poor of me even to think.”

  “I’m sure you only have Sir Elliot’s best interest at heart.”

  “Of course I do!”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “Well,” Catherine said comfortably, and Letty could just imagine her scooting her skinny bum closer to where Dottie sat. “Elliot’s rather come up in the world over the past years, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he has always been ambitious, and since his return from the east quite keen on politics. Believe me, he won’t be content with a knighthood.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed, no. And what better way to assure his rise in status than to marry a duke’s daughter?” Catherine paused a second before remembering to gasp. “There. I’ve said it and now I feel just terrible! You must know I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone but you, dear Dot.”

  “Of course not,” Dottie answered solemnly.

  “I just hope he knows what he’s getting into with a woman like that. And,” Catherine continued quickly, “you must believe that my concern is not all for our dear Elliot.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course, Letty thought grimly. And if you believe that, Dottie, you’ll believe that son of yours will be the next Prime Minister. Which you probably do.

  “Lady Agatha can’t possibly appreciate an intellect like Elliot’s. Brilliant men seldom experience deep emotional bonds with others. They give all their resources over to higher faculties. Which would be fine for a like-minded sort of lady, but very difficult for a…a…a perfervid creature like Lady Agatha.”

  Perfervid? Letty thought with a little inward cringe. She tested the unfamiliar word. It sounded very like “lecherous.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Dottie whispered in the delicious tones of the confirmed gossip. “A hot sort of woman. Why, when she’s with Sir Elliot they fair singe the air, what with the looks passing back and forth. Fair puts me in the vapors,” she finished piously.

  “Hmm. I daresay the looks are passing much more in the direction from Lady Agatha toward Sir Elliott than vice versa.” Catherine’s voice had taken on a notable chill. “I rather pity her, if truth be told.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean, she’s obviously given to female hysteria, being a spinster and all. Poor dear.”

  “You’re a saint, Catherine.”

  Letty pushed her knuckles into her mouth and bit them hard to keep from erupting into a string of West End profanity. Sounds of movement came from the room. Letty lifted her satin skirts and dashed around the corner and from there headed for the drawing room.

  Catherine was lying. Elliot wasn’t paying her attention because he thought she was a duke’s daughter. He was just as passionate as she, not perfervid—damn Catherine for putting the word in her head! Nor hot! He did feel the same irresistible pull as she. He couldn’t have feigned that. No one was that good an actor.

  But if he found her so damned irresistible, why hadn’t he kissed her again?

  Chapter 19

  When the plot is thin, add a fat costume.

  Not twenty minutes after Cabot left, stammering his thanks and backing out of the room before Letty could change her mind, another knock sounded on her door. She sat up on the bed where she’d flopped down flat on her stomach to read, shut her book, and slipped it under the pillow.

  “Come in.” Angela entered, carrying Fagin. The dog looked decidedly plumper than he had a few days ago. And much better groomed.

  “Aunt Eglantyne asked that I bring Lambikins to you,” Angela said, depositing the dog on a pillow. Fagin gave Letty a cursory glance before jumping down, trotting to the door, and sitting down in front of it. He looked over his shoulder at her.

  “I think he likes Aunt Eglantyne,” Angela said.

  What’s not to like? Letty asked herself. He was well fed, safe, content for the first time in his life. And for the first time in his life he didn’t have to worry about dodging London traffic or getting picked up to be used as a bait animal in London’s illegal dog pits.

  She didn’t blame the little blighter for wanting to suck every bit of sweet from the situation that he could. She was certainly doing the same. She and Fagin were two of a kind. Both living here under assumed names, posing as things they weren’t. Wishing it could go on forever.

  “And Aunt Eglantyne is ridiculously fond of him,” Angela said.

  “Then they should be allowed to enjoy each other’s company,” Letty said. “Please, will you let him out? I’m sure he’ll find his way. He’s clever that way.”

  “Thank you,” Angela said with her gentle smile. “Aunt Eglantyne is most appreciative of the company. She would never say as much, but I think she will be lonely after I’m gone.” She opened the door and Fagin at once stood up and trotted out. He didn’t look back.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Busy?” Letty swung her legs over the edge of the bed and picked up the tablet of paper she’d been sc
ribbling notes on. She’d been trying very hard to keep from thinking of Elliot and distracting herself by poring over Angela’s copy of Our Decorum that she’d nipped from the library.

  “I was just jotting down some ideas for your wedding party.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just looking for my book and wondering if you might have seen it.”

  “Book?” Letty shoved Our Decorum farther beneath the pillow behind her. She couldn’t very well own up to having it: What sort of duke’s daughter would need to consult a book on etiquette? “What book?”

  “Oh, just that silly book about Society manners I was reading,” Angela said self-consciously. “I suspect I’ll find it later.”

  “I’m sure you will.” This afternoon. After I’ve finished reading it. Who would have guessed the social world contained so many rules?

  Still Angela hesitated, and Letty was reminded of her youth and anxiety. “Have you heard anymore from Kip Himplerump?”

  Angela colored fiercely. “No.”

  “No? Well, there you go,” Letty said, pleased. “The snake has tried his hand at blackmail, dangled his bait, and having discovered you aren’t taking it slunk back under his rock.”

  “Do you really think so?” Angela asked eagerly.

  “Of course. Do yourself a favor, Angie, and forget the whole thing. You ought to be enjoying yourself. Not fussing after some girlish peccadillo.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yet another thing I don’t understand?” Letty murmured.

  “Kip is most possessive. He felt he and I had an understanding.”

  “Well,” Letty returned reasonably, “he was wrong. Blackmailers are basically cowards. Once you stand up to them, they back right down. Don’t worry any more about it.”

  Unless the blackmailer was Nick Sparkle. She shivered. She hadn’t thought about him in days. She hoped—no, she prayed—he’d given up trying to find her.

  “What if he doesn’t back down?” Angela asked.

  “You are going to be a marchioness, Angela,” she said, taking hold of the girl’s shoulder’s and looking her gravely in the eye. “If Kip Himplerump makes demands, simply deal with him.”